The Mellark Reaction
by xi.writes
Summary: A park ranger. A gourmet chef. Mix until light, fluffy, and well-combined. / Or, how Katniss and Peeta could have met, in three short scenes. (A modern-day Thanksgiving AU, centred around food.)


**[Trifle Thursday** **]**

"Shit, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" Muttering darkly to herself, Katniss raced around her apartment in a whirlwind of harried movement. Balancing a bottle of wine in one hand and her home-made strawberry mousse trifle in the other, she grabbed her wallet and keys from the counter and dashed out the door.

If she ran, she could make it to her mother's house in twenty minutes. She'd never hear the end of it if she was late for Thanksgiving dinner, especially when her baby sister Prim had flown down from the capital, two weeks before her finals, just to see them. Readjusting her grip on the wine, Katniss turned the corner of the narrow corridor—

—only to crash headlong into what felt like a solid brick wall. Wincing at the impact, she stumbled back, too startled to even realise she had lost her precarious grip on the bowl of trifle in the process. By the time she caught her bearings, the damage was already done.

Storm-grey eyes widened in rapidly growing horror as Katniss stared at a stocky young man who was now covered in baby pink mousse. Wayward specks had also landed on his face, and a few dollops slid from his strong nose onto his upper lip. Wordlessly, she watched as he licked a spot away.

"Not bad." Voice low and politely affable, he sounded completely unfazed by the splattered mess covering him from head-to-toe. "Though the consistency of the cream is a little off."

Katniss blinked at the non-sequitor, before refocusing on the more pressing issue at hand. "I'm sorry," she finally said, tugging awkwardly at her braid. "I didn't look where I was going. I can pay for your dry-cleaning bill if you want."

"Don't worry about it." The man waved off her offer with a conciliatory smile. "I was just going home, and these clothes were in need of a wash anyway. It's nothing a spin in the washing machine can't fix." Mellow blue eyes fell upon the now almost empty bowl on the ground, which had miraculously landed face up. "Your dessert, on the other hand..."

"I doubt anyone will miss it much," Katniss replied in wry tones. "It was a miracle it turned out even remotely edible anyway."

The man's lips curled up in a lopsided grin, showing a hint of dimple. "I take it that you're not much a fan of baking then?"

Katniss gathered the rest of her things, turning to go. "More like baking's not a fan of me," she returned archly.

* * *

 **[Macaron Monday]**

A few days later, as Katniss was locking her front door to head off to work, the neighbouring door opened, and a familiar stocky blond walked out.

"Hello again," he said with a teasing smile, as they both made their way to the elevator. "No mousse this time?"

"Fortunately for you, no."

"It's very early to be up," he commented, after a pause. First light hadn't even broken yet.

Katniss shrugged. "I'm used to it. As a ranger, it kind of comes with the territory. Now I can't sleep in even if I wanted to."

The man laughed softly, running a hand through his neat, slicked-back hair. "I know the feeling." By now, the pair had reached the basement parking lot. He gave her a jaunty wave. "Well then, I guess I'll see you around, Ranger Mousse."

Even the generally dour Katniss had to roll her eyes at the terrible pun. Jamming her helmet on her head, she swung herself onto her trusty old Harley. "The name's Katniss," she tossed over her shoulder.

"Peeta," he called out in response. And then, more loudly, over the revving of the engine— "Here." An almost weightless brown package was tossed in Katniss' direction. "For the road. You'll probably need it more than I do."

Puzzled, Katniss caught it neatly in one hand, but did not comment. Jerking her head in thanks, she floored the pedal of her motorcycle and sped off.

It was only after she'd reached the moss-veiled trails of the forest that she opened up the contents of the paper bag. One brow lifted in bemusement. The four puffy, pastel-coloured disks were crushed and a little worse-for-wear, but their shape was unmistakable.

He had given her macarons.

* * *

 **[Focaccia Friday]**

'Thank God it's Friday,' Katniss thought with a relieved sigh, gradually relaxed under the hot shower spray as the grime of the day was washed away. It had been a long, exhausting week, and she was dead on her feet. She had half-dozed off in the shower when a sudden, ear-splitting shrill ringing rudely jerked her awake.

"Oh, fuck," she said, very eloquently, as she stumbled out of the shower to turn off the fire alarm. Choking on the dark, pungent smoke billowing from the sides of her oven, Katniss was still hurriedly throwing open every window in her apartment as wide as they would go when the doorbell rang twice.

"Coming!" she called. Fixing a rather strained smile on her face, she opened the door.

"Hi Peeta," she said weakly, belatedly realising that she was clutching nothing but a fluffy white towel around herself.

Peeta's gaze dropped for a split second before he managed to catch himself. A hint of pink dusted his cheeks as he politely averted his eyes. "...Have I come at a bad time?"

"There have been better," Katniss replied, voice dry. "But it's fine. Can I help you?"

"I was wondering if you had any garlic spare? It's my day off, and I was too lazy to go to the market."

"Yeah, I think so. Hang on." After a quick rummage through her pantry, she was back at the door, a bag of garlic cloves in her hand. "Here. How much do you need?"

"Thanks, Katniss. Two or three cloves would be more than en—" Breaking off suddenly, Peeta gave a delicate sniff. "...That smell," he said, after a moment. "Is that... burnt chicken?"

Katniss nodded, making a face. "I was supposed to be having roast chicken for dinner. Unfortunately, the oven ate it before I could."

"...I see." Peeta said, attempting unsuccessfully to smother a smile.

"Yes, well, looks like I'll be ordering takeout tonight."

Peeta glanced down at the garlic cloves in his hand. "You know, I was just about to cook dinner myself. Why don't you just come eat over at my place?"

Katniss shook her head. "I don't want to impose. Thanks for the offer though."

"Consider it payment for the garlic cloves."

When Katniss still looked as though she wanted to refuse, he shot her a cajoling look. "Please, I insist. I have it on very good authority that my olive focaccia is superb, especially when paired with freshly-made tomato soup. At the very least, it's better than takeout."

Almost on cue, Katniss' stomach growled loudly.

"I promise I won't poison you," Peeta added with a boyish grin.

"Oh, all right," she replied, finally relenting. "I'll just go get dressed, then."

"Sure. Come over when you're ready."

.

"The door's open!" Peeta called from inside his apartment when Katniss rang his bell ten minutes later. Cautiously, she stepped inside. Unlike the spartan, sparsely-furnished interior of her own apartment, Peeta's living quarters were warm and homely, cluttered with all sorts of sentimental knick-knacks. The kitchen, in contrast, was immaculately tidy.

"Have a seat." He gestured at the dining table, before turning back to the stove. "I'll be done in a minute."

Sure enough, two bowls of delicious-smelling tomato soup, beautifully paired with slices of focaccia bread fresh out of the oven, were soon placed on the table with flourish. Katniss' eyes widened, suitably impressed.

"Dig in!" Peeta beamed, sliding into an opposite seat. He watched expectantly as Katniss took a first bite.

"Wow," she said. A burst of rich flavours and textures flooded her tastebuds. "This is really good." The second spoonful froze halfway to her mouth when she came to a sudden realisation. "—Wait. You're not a chef, are you?"

Peeta smiled. He seemed used to the praise, but pleased nonetheless. "Guilty as charged. I currently work at District 12."

Katniss groaned. District 12 was the newly-opened, Michelin-starred restaurant that was already making huge waves in the local foodie scene. "Great. Just great. Bad enough that you had to witness not one but _two_ of my abysmal failed attempts at cooking, without being a trained gourmet chef to boot!"

Peeta laughed. "But that's what we're here for — to do the work for you. Speaking of which, have you ever eaten at District 12?"

"No," Katniss admitted. "I've been waiting for a special occasion."

"You should definitely come," Peeta replied. "Call me biased, but we make some of the best pasta in the region. Bread-making's my specialty, but I'm a mean hand at strawberry trifle, too."

"...Okay, now you're just rubbing it in, aren't you?" Katniss accused with a mock glare.

Peeta winked. "...Maybe a little."

* * *

 **[Finis]**

* * *

 _ **A/N:** The Mellark (or rather, Maillard) Reaction is a chemical reaction between amino acids and reducing sugars that gives browned food its desirable flavour. Seared steaks, pan-fried dumplings, cookies and other kinds of biscuits, breads, toasted marshmallows, and many other foods undergo this reaction. It is named after French chemist Louis-Camille Maillard, who first described it in 1912. _


End file.
